The ends of our rope

I feel a little guilty as I tread upstairs into my room, where I quietly perform my own version of a Mr. Rogers' quick change.

I'll kick off my sandals and trade my bland daywear for more colorful activewear. 

I'll sit on a bench and pull on my sneakers. They slip over my heels even though the laces are already tied in a standard double knot. Never untying them is a strange and satisfying little shortcut I've started taking lately as I practice this strange and satisfying ritual that is running. 

Ordinarily, I'd refer to the bright orange kicks as "shoes," but "sneaker" seems more fitting at this moment. I feel guilty because I know my casual transformation is unlikely to delight my studio audience. I happen to be hiding my end-of-day clothing change from the dog, who, despite a milky cast to her eyes, and grey hair spiking up through her soft ginger fur, is pacing near the door like a puppy.

It's early evening and time for her walk, but I want to run. Ordinarily, we'd do both. She'd start with her "other person," ambling west along the same circular route while I lope off to the east. I will have clocked a mile or two before we meet at a mid-way park, where we'll slowly circle back toward home together.

But her usual walking partner is away on business, and her kids are busy with other things, so it's just the two of us. I think she knows that her chances of being at the end of her rope will dwindle when I'm at the end of mine. 

But I can't be sure. This is all going through my head, like a puppet show, bolstering my resolve to "run off" on her. For a little while, at least. 

As I stretch, I listen for her whereabouts. With luck and planning, I can avoid bearing witness to her disappointment as I leave. All I need to do is quietly take a right at the bottom of the stairs and exit the house through the furthest door from the last place I hear her nails go click-click-click against the floor. 

Not looking back is the key. If I make it outside without her seeing me or catching my scent, I could be home, free. 

I just need 20 minutes of not stopping to smell or bark or crouch. Twenty minutes to reach an arbitrary goal, and then I will make it up to her. 

I still feel a little bad. 

She's got a hang-dog expression that, like a thermometer, measures her exact level of heated disappointment from the gradual descent of her head as it dips from her shoulders toward the floor. 

When I return, she won't even feign acknowledgment. She'll just follow me with her eyes, refusing to put forward any effort to greet me.

I won't torture her. I'll just tug the favorite leash out of a tangle of backups; the one with the plastic hydrant hanging from the padded hand loop. All will be forgiven.